Not Her Mother's Daughter
by jenlovesbones
Summary: "But this is different and their situations are NOT the same...So she presses her foot a little harder against the pedal as she speeds away from the daylight that is beginning to chase her." A Summer One-Shot Series...
1. Not Her Mother's Daughter

_**That finale? The best thing to come out of Bones since the Proof and the Pudding. Pending they don't come back in the Fall and six years have passed or Christine, age 18, gets an internship at the Jeffersonian and there's a magical reunion with an FBI agent. **_

_**Yeah… so there are conditions. But let's just assume things are going to go well and enjoy the summer.**_

_**It's still RositaLG's birthday and why not give her another fic (technically, she asked me for a Bones fic. Technically, this isn't exactly what she requested. However, she did say the thing that prompted it and I have hope she'll cry like a baby reading it and that will remind her of what being a baby was actually like and that's a gift in itself.)**_

_**This is a post-Past in the Present fic. With things you should recognize from Stargazer in a Puddle.  
**_

_**P.S. Thanks jaded_repartee for the betaing.**_

_***serious face now*  
**_

* * *

This is different.

Their situations are not the same.

"_This is a hard, hard world. Your father and I left you and Russ to save your lives."_

No. Their situations are not the same.

"_People would have killed you to get us."_

She almost stops. She almost pulls off to the side of the road.

But she knows if she does, she'll turn around. She'll turn around and she'll go back and that will be it.

"_That's not what this is about. Today is your sixteenth birthday. I'm so sorry not to be there to tell you all the things a mother should tell her daughter when she turns sixteen and sorry not to give you this. It's an heirloom. And starting today, it's yours."_

She toys with her mother's ring on her finger, the motion, the action helping to keep her awake. She's not far enough away. She has to keep going. It's not time to stop yet.

Maybe tomorrow. In the daylight. In a small town. Hidden from view behind trucks at a truck stop as she sleeps for an hour.

She thinks over every tip her father gave her to stay hidden.

And she hears Christine gurgle from her car seat.

She knows that babies are safest when they are facing backwards in the car. But she'd give anything right now to be able to see her daughter's face.

But she can't see her yet. She has more driving to do.

"_I don't know how long it will take me to get it to you, but I promise you I will."_

She wipes the tears falling as she thinks about Booth. She chokes back a sob as she considers what his night has been like.

But _this_ is different and their situations are NOT the same.

She left him as an adult, whole and intact. He is an FBI agent who lives by the words Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity. She's never known anyone who fits the descriptions of those words more than Booth.

And he's not harboring a fugitive, nor did he become an accomplice to helping one escape. He wasn't forced to arrest her because he knew of her plan. Or worse yet, unwilling to do his job because the stakes were her and him and their life.

But she can't help but wonder how angry he is with her for leaving. For taking their daughter with her. For leaving him behind. For leaving her mess in his wake. For forcing him to have to deal with the fallout of this mess.

While she still believes that marriage is a mostly antiquated ritual, she couldn't be more grateful to _not_ be married to him this day. For better. For worse. For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, or in jail for a crime she didn't commit… if she had already made him these promises, she wouldn't have been able to leave today.

And she had to leave. She did.

_But this is different,_ she reminds herself. And their situations are NOT the same.

On another level, however, she knows him better than she knows herself. She knows he understands. Present tense. Even though he's hurting.

And it IS different. Because when her mother left her, she was just a young girl. Booth is more than capable of fighting for himself. And more than that, he's capable of fighting for them. For their family.

Because Booth has faith in the justice system. Booth has faith in his God. But she doesn't have any faith. She _knows_ him. And she knows he won't stop until he brings them both home. There isn't a definition of faith audacious enough describe how she believes in Booth.

And belief? That's why she left. She left with her daughter so Christine would never have reason to believe that there wasn't anything her mother wouldn't do for her. To protect her. To be with her.

This IS different and their situations are NOT the same.

She is NOT her mother's daughter. She IS, however, Christine Booth's mother. And when faced with the same situation her own mother was more than 20 years ago, she chose differently.

She chose better.

What might seem selfish to some is the most selfless thing she could ever choose to do. She chose her daughter. Over the Justice System. Over her friends and her family and her job. Over Booth. She chose her daughter when she left Booth at that church and she will choose her baby girl again and again, for every mile she's already driven and every mile to come.

Christine will never have to learn, sometime down the line, that her mother loved her. Past tense. She will prove it to Christine, every single day, by being there. Every. Single. Day. She will fight to be Christine's mother, the best mother she can be, with every breath she takes. With every bone in her body.

So she presses her foot a little harder against the pedal as she speeds away from the daylight that is beginning to chase her.

"_It was my insistence to leave you kids. Max would have kept us together, fought until the end, I'm not sure he'll ever forgive me for that."_

She is NOT her mother's daughter. Her mother took flight when she left her behind. She knows her mother had her reasons but years of trying to understand them were washed away when her daughter was born. There is no reason good enough.

And while some might see what Brennan has done as her own version of flight, going on the run, it's the opposite. She is _fighting._ Fighting for her daughter. Fighting for Booth. Fighting for her life and his life and their life together.

And she can't fight if she's playing by Pelant's rules behind bars. So she presses her foot a little harder against the pedal.

Christine starts to cry for attention from her car seat as the speed increases and Brennan speaks for the first time in hours.

"It's okay Christine. Mommy's here."

She takes a deep breath to steady her voice before she continues talking in an effort to comfort her child.

"You are loved, Christine. Your father and I, we _love _you. And you are _cherished. _And I promise you, I will ensure you know this every day_,_" she insisted.

"We will make it back to Daddy, little one. And I hope he forgives me for what I've done. This is what made sense. This is what made the most sense," she continued, nodding to herself tiredly.

_This IS different._

_And their situations are NOT the same. _

"This is not the same… I am _not_ my mother's daughter…" she whispered emphatically, as she, with her daughter gurgling in the backseat, crossed yet another state line.

* * *

_**Did you cry? Too much to hope for? **_

_****__**P.P.S. See T & R? I'm right here. I haven't gone ANYWHERE. Pretty. White. Jackets. :p**_


	2. The Message

_**Sooooo… this isn't going to be a continuous story, per say. More like a series of loosely-connected, post-finale one-shots anytime I think about something related to the finale that I want to write about. Make sense?**_

_**Some1tookmyname- thanks for the beta. **_

* * *

**The Message**

* * *

It happened two weeks after she had driven away from the church.

Away from him.

Angela, who had been checking in to "see how you're doing" daily, insisted he have lunch with her that day. She was remarkably specific about needing to see that he was okay, in person. At exactly Noon. At the diner, no later. And since he was sanctioned to desk duty, he was plenty happy for any excuse to leave the bureau during the day.

Her insistence should have tipped him off.

Just in case he thought to skip out on lunch or show up a moment late, Angela arrived at his office at 11:45 to walk to lunch with him.

They arrived to the diner by Noon.

It was at 12:40 when they stood to leave and he pulled out his phone instinctively to check for messages.

Not that he was expecting any calls. His family in hiding and no active cases to supervise meant he had very little use for his phone these days. But still… better safe, than sorry.

"Damn… My phone turned off," he said, pressing the power key.

"Really. That's so weird. Sometimes my phone does that too, just randomly and for no specific reason it'll turn off. Maybe the phone overheated. Or the program it runs on was trying to update its system and had to shut down. It could honestly be a variety of perfectly plausible explana…"

Angela stopped mid-ramble as Booth looked at her strangely. "Ange, are you okay?"

"Mmmm mmm. Okay. I'm fine. Gotta go. So good to see you Booth. I'll call you soon, okay. Bye!" she shouted with a quick wave and an even quicker pace out the door, leaving him at the counter with the bill in hand and a phone restarting.

After paying, he walked outside and looked at the phone, swearing under his breath when he saw he had two voicemails. The first, a message from a junior agent who had questions about some form or another and right now, Booth was the go to guy for inane questions. And the second was simply an accidental dial.

Or so he thought.

But just before he hit delete he heard a laugh. A sound so sweet, so pure, so new, he nearly doubled over on the sidewalk, as if he'd just taken a direct hit to his gut.

There was the noise of a squishy toy being contracted and released, followed by the happiest of squeals. And a laugh. An honest to God _laugh_.

Followed by more gurgling. Another squeeze of the squishy toy. And more laughter. Then, a click.

The message hadn't been more than 20 seconds long. And Booth listened to it repeatedly as he marched down the streets, up the steps and in to Angela's office at the Jeffersonian. She immediately put her arms up in defense, apologizing.

He just wanted her to trace the number. It took him a minute to realize that she was _in_ on the phone call.

She had explained she had received a text message from an untraceable burner cell phone. The number he'd received the call from was different, yet equally untraceable. Her only instructions were to have his phone off at 12:10 that day.

He let Angela hear the message.

"She didn't want you to miss the first moments your daughter laughed."

He started to leave, telling Angela he had to report this in to the agents in charge of the search for Brennan. That he had to. That she would want him to stay on the up and up. But Angela shook her head profusely.

"Play it back one more time and listen to it. All of it, Booth."

He played it back again and they both were close to tears at the sounds.

Then Angela took the phone from him and hit delete.

"It was a wrong number, or an accidental call, Booth. No one said anything. And there's no reason to keep this message on your phone."

He looked at her like she'd just shot him. And she had felt that way too, as she watched him leave her office, speechless, devastated and wounded.

Even though he knew it was best.

* * *

_**Come on, tell me. Who's reading #Bones fanfic this summer? :)**_


	3. Bones

_Tracy – Thanks for the looksie. :)_

* * *

**Bones**

* * *

_**Patricia Donovan. **_

_**Heather Smith.**_

_**Lydia Jennings.**_

_**Karen Rodger.**_

Every time she managed to sleep, wake up, shower, pack what little she had and move on to the next town, the next motel, the next hiding place, her name changed.

She had to hand it to her father. The man went overboard in his zeal to change her identity. She really believed two or three identification cards could have gotten the job done.

"_This is how you lose yourself in the system. You continue to change your identity until there's simply no trail to find," _he said.

The next time she saw him, he had procured two more identities.

_**Lisa Foster.**_

_**Sarah Sullivan.**_

Keeping track of her identities was making her head spin.

_Metaphorically, of course._

Every day, when Christine was finally sleeping, she would steal a chance for a shower, an opportunity to get as clean as one could when the smells of musty motels and old cars were clinging to one's skin.

Every time she entered the bathroom, she tried her best to avoid the mirror.

_Why look when you knew what you would see?_

As days had passed, the constant sunlight from driving had lightened her hair. And then there was the first dye job, which gave it a red hue.

Eventually, it was a dark blonde. And shorter.

Her father had told her that no matter how hard she tried, a woman as beautiful as she was, with a baby nonetheless, would always draw attention to herself.

And she needed to blend in. Go unseen.

The next time she saw him, he came bearing two more ID cards.

_**Cynthia Ryan.**_

_**Catherine Stewart.**_

And colored contacts. While he had already coached her on wearing sunglasses as often as possible to assist in avoiding direct eye contact with anyone and everyone, pulling her hair back so strangers couldn't judge the length, and the art of the hat in making a good disguise, he still felt her eyes were too distinctive in those moments she couldn't hide them.

So she had dark hazel eyes now.

She was constantly on guard in her hotel room. Fully dressed, ready to run on a moment's notice. Her father's advice rang repeatedly in her head. _"A room doesn't have wheels."_

Sometimes, she would find a local park ... or any outdoor area, honestly ... to take Christine to, and while she was too young to run and carrying her daughter around would draw far too much attention to them both, she would find an secluded area to park in, and open the windows.

It was the rare moment every few days she allowed herself to breathe, to hold her daughter and remember for a brief moment who she was.

Christine's mother.

But the car always stayed running.

After a month of driving to no-name-places, ignoring mirrors and staying in the third car she had switched to on her cross country trek, she had finally reached 'stir-crazy'.

She was in the middle of the desert, between one forgettable town and the next, when she stopped at a gas station, surely the only one in this small town.

After she had gotten gas, knowing her father would tell her to move on, _keep driving_, she beat back the echoes of his warnings in her head. _Just five minutes_, she promised herself. Five minutes where she wasn't _this person. _Where she was just _Christine's mother_ instead.

She took her daughter out of the car, not intending to walk far, but needing to show her daughter something more than an angle out the window of her car seat and the inside of a motel room.

She wandered past a small diner and wistfully stared at the pies rotating in the window. She stepped around the entrance to what was surely the town's tavern and refused to remember simpler times, when she could relax with a glass of wine or _really relax_ with a shot of tequila.

She walked past the post office and vaguely wondered if small towns still posted "Wanted" posters. She knew the idea that she even warranted a place on a poster, anywhere, was foolish, but she involuntarily quickened her pace.

She ended up in front of a general store. Out front was a man sitting in a rocking chair, likely a member of the Yavapai Indian tribe, given their approximate location and the details she could make of the man.

She physically stumbled at the thought, quickly regaining her balance as she considered the man ahead of her and realized she had identified him based on things she knew. Things she knew because she was an anthropologist.

And for weeks, she had been trying so hard to hide herself from view, she'd forgotten what it was like to do something that used to come to her so naturally.

The man looked at her appraisingly and she knew this was the time for her to turn away. To become unmemorable.

But she was just _so tired_ of hiding.

So she proceeded forward, giving him a slight nod as she walked into the store.

And she walked up and down every single aisle. Slowly. Methodically. Stretching seconds into minutes, as if she had a great need to consider which microwaveable dinner would be her meal tonight.

She was grateful that the store was empty. She figured that the man outside must be its proprietor, for there was no one else in sight.

She reviewed what they had in the car and if she or Christine were in need of anything else. She grabbed a couple of snacks. Bottled waters out of the cooler. A pack of diapers in the only size they carried.

She placed these things on the counter, but remained alone in the store.

She could have called for the man outside, but being seen was one thing. Being heard was another and she hadn't quite found her voice yet in this attempt to be daring and break her father's hard and fast rules of running from the law.

As she stood at the counter, waiting for the man to come in, a trinket by the register caught her eye.

A necklace, nothing more than a black cord strung through plastic beads, save for three small, shaped objects that she had easily identified held her attention longest.

"My wife makes this jewelry."

She jumped in place and startled Christine who let out a holler when the voice behind her sounded. She let the necklace fall back to the stand it hung from while she avoided eye contact with the man.

"You like the jewelry," he asked, while walking to his side of the counter, taking the necklace off the stand and putting it in her hands.

"It's very nice," she said in a voice so soft, she barely recognized it. "Are these parts here made of bear claws?" she asked, indicating the three beads in the strand, chiseled into the shape of beads, puncture so that the cord could run through them like beads, even though they weren't beads at all.

He considered her carefully, before he nodded. "Real bone. Thirty dollars."

She stared at the necklace in her hand. She knew it was a frivolous purchase, money that would be wasted on an unattractive piece of jewelry at a time when she was counting dollars like she was the minutes since she left home.

"Okay," she heard herself say, though as she paid him for that and the rest of her things, she still wasn't sure why she had agreed to purchase it.

She switched her daughter to her other arm, grabbed the bag of her purchases and quickly walked back to the car.

They were in a different state before they stopped again for the night.

After feeding and bathing her daughter, she found herself sitting quietly on the bed, running her hands over the beads made of bear claws on the necklace like she had done with thousands of other bones in her life, trying to see if there was anything she could learn about the animal they came from.

After awhile, she fumbled with the necklace's clasp and fastened it around her neck. Then she reached over and switched off the light in an effort for another half-attempt at sleep in a room with no wheels. While Christine had woken her twice in the middle of the night, once the sun had risen to start the day, she was awake before her daughter had stirred.

She walked into the bathroom to take a shower, dreading yet another day on the road, another motel where she'd give another false name, only to lead to another night of half-sleep while she dreamt of being home.

As she undressed, she caught her reflection in the mirror and this time, didn't turn away from it.

Everything that had been wrong was still the same. Her hair color and length. The extinguishing of her distinguishable eyes. The noticeable dark circles and worn expressions that plagued her face.

But this time, her eyes were drawn to the necklace. The black cord, the multicolored beads.

And the bead-shaped bones.

While she had been having a hard time remembering who she was on the run, with multiple identities, living little of the life she had left behind, the necklace was a welcomed reminder of who she was and the life that was waiting for her to return to it when it was safe. To the strangers she passed each day, she may have been Patricia or Lisa, Catherine or Cynthia. In small moments, she could allow herself to simply be Christine's mother. But now, she could look in the mirror and be reminded her of something else, too.

Bones. She was _Bones_.


	4. Plausible Deniability

_**I rarely get around to doing individual review responses (usually because I rarely have time to write), but I wanted to say thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far, for being so kind, because that's very much the case. So thank you, truly!**_

_**I'm not sure where all this is coming from. For the last couple of years, I've written randomly, when inspiration hits. But this is the fourth of the five stories I've written post-finale. That's five stories in about two weeks times, actually. That's a good sign the finale will have a solid place in my Bones Top 10, forever.**_

_**Thanks to Some1tookmyname for endless "How do you think I should…?" questions in this piece.**_

_**(In case you were wondering, the answer to most questions should be "Ninja Brennan.")**_

* * *

**Plausible Deniability**

* * *

Desk duty sucked.

He finally opted to go back to work, since he had no one at home to protect and being in the office meant he could stay physically close to the investigation. But desk duty was threatening to bore him back to suspension without pay.

But if he left again, he'd spend all of 10 minutes in their house before he packed and hit the road to find her. Find them. He wouldn't be able to help himself.

So he worked to assist a junior agent (a junior freaking agent) track down witnesses instead.

And while Junior decided it was okay to take a Saturday off to spend with his family, Booth found himself alone at work.

That's when he got a cryptic message with an address.

And who was he to not follow up on a lead when it presented itself, even if he wasn't technically allowed out in the field? Not to mention, the lead could turn out not to be a lead at all, and he would have angered a fellow agent for no reason on his day off.

Something about asking for forgiveness later rather than permission first, entered his mind.

He watched the building matching the address he was sent for a few minutes. It was an abandoned warehouse in the middle of brownfields; nothing much to be seen for miles on end. People would have been tremendously easy to spot out here. And that's why the swinging of a door caught his attention.

He parked a little closer to the building before he exited his SUV while maintaining his distance so whoever was inside couldn't see him coming. He approached the building's first set of doors… locked. Same with the second set. He couldn't hear anything happening on the inside as he worked his way to the door he saw swing open.

With his gun extended in front of him, he quietly opened the door and slipped inside the dark building. And he felt the tug on his gun at the exact same moment both of his feet were swept from under him.

His captor crawled on top of him, taking his breath as his gun was forcefully removed from his hand. And then he heard the clink. Handcuffs. One cuff around his wrist and another all before he could gasp for another breath.

"What the hell?" Booth shouted, his mouth covered by his captor mid-yell as he struggled against the weight of the person kneeling on his chest. He barely registered the removal of his own set of handcuffs and cell phone from his person until he heard them slide across the floor.

"Stay here," his captor whispered before climbing off of him. But the sound of her voice caused him to struggle more.

"Bones? Bones!" he shouted into the dark.

"Don't yell," she called back to him.

Relief and anger and frustration and happiness and relief again flooded through his system as he struggled to move himself up into a sitting position, tugging on his restraint forcefully as he stared into the dark for some trace of her.

"Bones, where are you?"

"Shush, Booth. I just… just trust me. Watch, please."

She kneeled to the ground near him, not close enough so he could reach her, but close enough that he could see her in what little light leaked into the building. She quickly placed a blanket, followed by their daughter on to the floor in front of them.

"Christine…" Booth murmured wistfully, fighting back his urge to sob at the sight of them both.

"Come on, baby girl," Brennan whispered, ignoring Booth's additional calls of her name, squishing a squeaky toy to the side of her daughter's head to grab her attention.

Christine, flat on her back, turned her head toward the noise and giggled, before extending her arms toward the sound.

"You can do it," Brennan said, continuing to slowly move the toy out of her daughter's reach for another minute. And then….

"She rolled over! Christine…" Booth cheered softly, forgetting momentarily everything but this moment, smiling when Christine giggled in success from her new position on her stomach, her mother relinquishing her toy to her grasp.

"An infant's ability to roll over is considered a significant milestone in their early development and numerous infant guides suggest that parents document the event for posterity's sake. She was coming quite close to rolling over yesterday and it just… I… I felt like you needed to be here to see that."

He could hear more than see her struggle to fight back tears and he moved as close to her as he could get. "Bones…" he whispered, nearly palming her cheek before she moved out of his reach again.

"Here… Hold Christine for a little bit," she said, picking up her daughter and placing her in his lap before pushing herself back from them both.

With his one free arm, he cradled his daughter to him for the first time in weeks, holding her close and breathing her in.

"Bones, would you please, please come closer?" he pleaded softly.

"I can't," she said as firmly as her voice would allow.

"Why not?"

"Because if I get any closer to you, if I allow you to hold me or touch me, I don't know if I'll be able to leave you again."

"Bones, get over here, now," he demanded softly.

There was very little light in the warehouse, but he could still make out her face, her eyes, avoiding his.

"Did I hurt you?" she asked, her voice soft, her words asking multiple questions.

He decided to go for the easy one. "For sake of my ego, I'm going to pretend like you didn't get the drop on me earlier."

"I had carefully thought through the necessary maneuvers to incapacitate you with as little injury as possible, Booth."

"Gee, thanks Bones. Mind telling me why you felt the need to incapacitate me at all?"

"There's an active warrant for my arrest and you're an officer of the law. You have to arrest me, if you're able."

"Bones…"

"But I had to see you. We had to see you. I knew she was going to be able to roll over today, Booth and… I just didn't want you to miss any more than you had to."

"Bones, I'm begging you. Uncuff me. Please."

"My father's been wrong about many things in life Booth, but I don't think he's wrong about Pelant, getting to me behind bars."

"God, I'm not going to arrest you, Bones! I need to go with you."

"No," she stated flatly.

"No? You're my family, Bones! You and Christine… and I should be with you."

"You're an FBI agent Booth. And if you weren't incapacitated right now, you would have to arrest me."

"But I wouldn't."

"I would insist."

"Not happening, Bones."

"Which is why you are currently cuffed to a pipe. You don't have a choice in the matter of arresting me or not. We will leave here today, with plenty of lead time to hinder your ability to search for us and we'll continue to hide until it's safe to return and you will manage to maintain plausible deniability regarding your ability to execute my arrest."

"Don't leave me here, Bones… please. I can't keep wondering day in and day out, where you are and if you're both okay…"

"It's for the best, Booth. You also have Parker to think about. And… and if something should happen to me, Christine needs one…"

"No!" he interrupted.

"She needs one of us, Booth! She's not going to have my life! Both parents, turned fugitives, in hiding or on the run until we need to leave her behind because we think it will keep her safe? That's not an acceptable solution, Booth, and it's most definitely not a life I will permit our daughter to have."

"Bones, I don't care about my job. Just you. I need to go with you."

"You do care. You're just blind to that fact right now. I'm the one on the run, and when you figure this out and prove Pelant is the cause of all of this, you can clear my name, and I might even be able to return to work. If you run too, you could never be a FBI agent again. Your life, as you know it, would be over. And for what?"

"For you. For her," he said, nodding at his daughter, now soundly sleeping against his chest.

"You can do us more good by staying in the system, then being outside of it. And you know that's true."

"I didn't do you any good before and I'm not doing you any good now," he said dejectedly.

"You will bring us home, Booth. You will help solve this case, you will figure it out, and we will come home," she said softly but firmly, her faith in him unwavering as she extended her hand to cup his cheek.

He leaned into her hand, sandwiching it between his cheek and shoulder which brought her just a little closer to him.

"Bones…"

This time, she grabbed both his cheeks and kissed him. It was brief, yet confident, full of the faith she had always had in him, whether she believed in the concept or not.

"I love you," he whispered, as she held his face close to hers.

"I love you, too."

"When this is all over… and I swear to God, it'll be over soon, promise me I'm never going to have to watch you drive away from me again."

She hated making promises. There were rarely guarantees in life, and certainly not ones which human beings could ensure they could uphold. But this…

She _wanted_ to promise him this. And maybe, for right now, that was enough.

"I promise."

She kissed him quickly again, before letting go and hurriedly moving to pick up Christine's toy and blanket while rising to her feet.

She shifted on her feet uncomfortably before succumbing to the need to ask him the question she could barely bear to consider.

"Do you want… should I… should she stay…?" she stuttered and he realized immediately what she was trying to do. The gift, the choice she was trying to give him.

"Take her… and remind her every day how much I love her, okay? At least 10 to 12 dozen times a day, if you wouldn't mind," he said with only a hint of humor.

She nodded vigorously, not trusting her voice as she bent to pick her daughter up and take her with her.

"We'll see Daddy again soon, won't we Baby Girl," Brennan said, both to her daughter and her partner.

"I always wondered if you'd succumb to giving her a nickname…" Booth said.

"It's safer to call her something generic, so that no one overhears her name," Brennan said factually.

As the reality of their reunion swept over him, he crawled to his knees using his one untied hand. "Here," he said, pulling out his wallet and the 84 dollars within, reaching for her in search of a pants pocket to put it in.

"Booth…" she started.

"Don't argue on this, of all things, okay," he said, searching his pockets for anything else he had on him.

"So now I've assaulted a federal officer, held him against his will _and_ robbed him?" she said with a chuckle.

"I feel like I should insert a joke here about how over the years you've also stolen my heart… and my French fries."

"One of those references was funny. The other would kill you, and I very much prefer you alive." They both chuckled at that, in a small moment where they managed to forget where they were and why.

"I'm gonna get him Bones," he stated, his features hardening.

"I know."

"You'll both come home soon."

"We know. Very soon…"

He grasped at her available hand held it, until she pulled away. He heard more than saw her walk to a set of doors on the opposite end of the building, before he thought to ask her one last thing.

"Hey Bones?"

"Yes?"

"How exactly am I getting out of here?"

"You'll figure it out."

It only took him 20 minutes of feeling around the floors and walls to realize she had somehow managed to slip the key into his jacket pocket.

* * *

_**:)**_

_****__**Technically, this was originally part of chapter two (The Message), but that became its own thing because this story (Plausible Deniability) became its own thing. And whether both The Message and this story happen in your Bones-hiatus-imagination, or it's one or the other… that's up to you. But they were both written, so why not post them both.**_


	5. Playing Pretend

_**I blame Booth for my knowledge of all things relating to Philadelphia Flyers and hockey now. Well... Booth and my colleagues in 2010 and the Flyers going to the finals.**_

_**But you don't have to have the same (or any) appreciation of hockey to enjoy this. I hope. :)**_

_**And the ( ****...** ), if it isn't clear, simply indicate pauses, short or long, in the conversation between Brennan and Christine, while a hockey game is on the television. It's hard to have a conversation with a 12-week-old (also, to lay out visuals in a fanfic sometimes). But they do make for excellent listeners..._

* * *

"I think you should know that there is very little I can teach you about any of this," she said, nodding toward the TV in their motel room. In the couple of weeks they have been on the run so far, this was one of the first nights they had had a working television. And frankly, she was grateful for it, even if the equipment's only purpose was to create background noise. But tonight, she had stumbled upon something else. Something familiar.

And familiarity was hard to come by these days.

**...**

"While I don't feel comfortable deeming myself knowledgeable on what we're watching, I will say that I've been living with your father nearly a year now and I've known him much longer. And in that time, I've paid closer attention to this activity because I have viewed it frequently in our home. Propinquity to this recurring event is more to blame, for it certainly does not interest me."

******...**  


"I know you are too young to understand what's going on, but since your father is not here, I feel as if I should treat you as he would. And in the past, when you have been present while he watches these games, he gives you the shot-by-shot narration. And I think it's important to tell you that he always roots for the Philadelphia Flyers in any event they play in. He would not be rooting against the New Jersey Devils tonight simply for reasons associated with his Catholicism."

**...**

"I also recall mention that true Philadelphians look down on New Jersey culture, so it's probably true that your father would dislike the opposing team because of their geographical association as well. The desire to support a team is rooted in the history of war. Anthropologically speaking, sports are a way for boys to learn and practice their battle skills in peace times. Choosing to dislike all things related to New Jersey is comparable to choosing to dislike another country or kingdom who you view as an enemy or threat. And cheering for the team you closely associate with is like metaphorically serving one's country in a battle against an enemy. I haven't tried to explain this to your father yet, mostly because he gets frustrated when I try to explain the anthropological significance of anything to him. But if I were to explain it, I would tell him that it is this instinct of a soldier prepared to do battle which makes him believe that shouting at the television in the midst of a sporting match will have some sort of effect on the outcome."

**...**

"Oh! Now, I don't believe that was a good thing. You see, the Finnish man with the name Timonen on his shirt sent the small disc toward the Russian man, Bryzgalov. And then he seemed to have shot it at the player on the other team who then hit it into the net, which I think earns the New Jersey team points. I believe this would be one of those moments I mentioned when your father would yell obscenities at the television set, as if the players could hear his frustration and respond to the orders he gives them."

**...**

"While I know this to be a mere coincidence, I am quite sure your father would believe that you purposefully waited until this break in the game to evacuate your bowels. Your timing would please him."

**...**

"I am quite surprised you are still awake, Christine. Perhaps this game is over-stimulating you."

Christine let out a plaintive whine as she began to reach for the remote control, making Brennan rethink turning off the television.

"That is a trait you have most certainly inherited from Booth."

**...**

"There is a reason the players of this game wear so much protective equipment. Considering the velocity of the disc that hit the man named Simmonds, before it flew past the guard in front of the netting, it's amazing that he hasn't sustained a remarkably painful injury. This is why, when your father one day insists on taking teaching you how to play hockey, I will insist that you wear all of the same equipment a professional player does."

**...**

"Although, I feel I should reassure you that your father would not allow you to be injured as long as he could control it. It's the other people on skates, with sticks, who I would not entrust your safety to."

**...**

"I see that you are growing tired, baby girl. While the game is not over yet, I believe the other team, with a score of three, has a definitive advantage over the Flyers, who have only scored once tonight. I do not believe they will have the opportunity to score enough points to tie this game, much less win it."

**...**

"I find that I, too, am disappointed in this loss. Despite knowing that your father is working very hard to find a way to bring us home, I am sure that a win for his team tonight could have helped to boost his spirit in our absence."

**...**

"However, if we assume that your father watched this game tonight, we can almost pretend like we were there with him. At the very least, I was able to discern some of the moments that may have caused predictable reactions while watching the game. Of the numerous parenting manuals I have read, they have all insisted that you will hit a period where playing pretend will evolve as an important part of your development. I know my secret is safe with you, since you do not yet possess the brain function to process or retain this information, but I quite enjoyed pretending with you tonight."

**...**

As the final whistle blew, she turned the TV off, followed by the bedside light and kissed her daughter's forehead goodnight, wishing her dreams of sitting on her father's lap, enjoying his enthusiasm for this sport in the next season, despite knowing her daughter was too young to have such dreams. Perhaps she would dream of these things on her behalf.

**...**

* * *

_**As I've said before, these one-shots aren't necessarily related to one another, or in any specific order. This one... is in no order. The little detail I gave is based on the May 8 Philadelphia Flyers/New Jersey Devils playoff game even though Brennan doesn't go on the run until a few days later. I wrote this before I stopped to consider the dates and I'm very detail-oriented so it bothers me. Suspend your knowledge of the timeline with me, okay? This game totally could have happened later in May if playoffs would just happen later in May. **_

**And that taps me of everything I did in my post-finale-two-week-writing-buzz. Ideas for Brennan and Booth this hiatus? :)**


	6. Our Troubles Aren't All The Same

_**A/N: Hi. :)**_

* * *

**_Making your way in the world today  
Takes everything you've got;  
Taking a break from all your worries  
Sure would help a lot.  
Wouldn't you like to get away?_**

* * *

It had been a long day. A really _long_ day. While she knew she couldn't avoid going home forever, she could delay it by stopping for a well-deserved glass of red wine.

She walked in and headed straight for the bar, but froze a footstep from the only empty seat when she recognized the slumped figure sitting next to it.

Four ignored phone calls this week alone. Multiple emails. Every message needing a response somehow got relayed back to her through Angela.

She almost turned back. She almost turned around and just went home. It had been a _long_ day and she wasn't sure the red wine was worth the problems sitting down could cause.

She would prefer her headaches to be caused by hangovers, if she had to choose.

Despite this, she finished moving forward and took the last seat.

And she didn't say anything.

Neither did he.

It was the bartender that broke the silence, asking her what she wanted. She glanced at the man to her side. He did nothing but take another swig of his own beer.

"Red wine, please," she requested softly.

The bartender looked between them, then left to get her drink. She took a deep breath before she turned her whole body to face him.

"How've you been?"

She got no response.

"I know that's probably a dumb question. I suppose I can guess…"

Her red wine glass was set in front of her. And still, he gave her no indication he had even heard her.

"Michelle started her freshman year a couple weeks ago. She loves campus, but not-so-much the roommate she was assigned, so I've come home to find her 'doing laundry' or 'needing a quiet place to study' a few nights since she's started."

"Must be nice. Your kid, in your house," he breathed bitterly.

"God… I'm… that was stupid on my end," Cam said contritely, picking up her glass and taking a large sip. "I'm sorry."

No response.

"So, I guess you know Hodgins has a couple of solid new theories…. Angela says she's been checking up on you. Probably filled you in?"

"Yeah. I get updates from Angela and Hodgins."

Cam took a larger sip of wine, but slammed her glass down with more force than usual.

"Listen, Booth. I know you're mad at me. And I even understand why, but... But I know Doctor Brennan's innocent. Everything I've done is to keep us above board so we can prove it."

This time, he sighed, sadness lining his face, before taking another sip.

"Seeley…" she started, but he cut her off

"Listen. I know you did what you had to do. I know you did what was right. I even know that Bones approved of how you handled everything along the way. But you see…" he said, tapping his beer bottle against the counter. "There's one last sip in this bottle. And when I finish it, I get to go home. To a house with a nursery that doesn't hold my daughter. And to a bed my partner hasn't slept in, in weeks."

Booth picked up the beer and stared at the tip of the bottle thoughtfully. Angrily. "I appreciate all the work you're doing Camille, really. But small talk isn't going to change the fact that every time you do your job, they're another day and week away from coming home. That Pelant is winning this game and we're helping him. So forgive me for not feeling so chatty about your life, when mine's in shambles."

He pulled back the last sip of his beer while throwing down a couple of bills to cover it. Cam looked only at the bottle he slammed back on the counter and he was out the door by the time she glanced behind her.

"Bartender," Cam said, pushing her wine glass away from her. "Can I switch to whiskey? Double, please. It's been a long day."

* * *

_**A/N Squared: My muse went on summer vacation. This took me a whole day to write, like I'm churning butter or something. How do I convince her to return? :p**_


	7. Limbo

_**Writing for Booth is tougher for me as I relate to Brennan most of the time, so... So rather than start him his own thread, I'm just gonna keep all the post-seven one-shots and drabbles here. Thanks Tracy, dahling, for the read-through. :)  
**_

* * *

"No. This is morbid."

"Good afternoon to you too, Angela."

"You cannot eat here. This is wrong and grotesque and your food might have something growing on it, like dead people's skin flakes."

"Are you guys keeping non-skeletal remains down here now? Bones is gonna hate that…"

"You know what I mean, Booth."

"Then I would have to tell you that you're being inaccurate. Each set of remains here is cleaned and treated in a way that preserves the bone. This is probably the cleanest room in the whole museum one can eat in. Also, I don't think dead skin cells can grow anything, since they're dead."

"Okay, Mister Literal. It doesn't make it any less morbid. And since when am I the one who has to explain this to YOU? I mean, guys are guys and Hodgins will eat anything in the ookey room including some of the things he grows in the ookey room. But you? You should be horrified at the fact that you're just sitting here on the stairs down to Limbo, much less partaking in your lunch."

He stays quiet for few moments before he quietly answers her. "Clark is working in her office."

She sighs as she sits down beside him, both sets of legs now swinging off the side of the stairs.

"I know."

"And I walked all the way over here to have lunch like I usually do in her office. But... not today. And no one's down here. So I'm not bothering anyone," he defended quietly, staring at what he had left of the hot dog he had grabbed from the vendor on the walk over.

"You know, despite the general cleanliness of the room, Brennan would totally scold you for eating in here, potentially contaminating her remains."

"Then she should come back to scold me."

With that, Angela gave his shoulders a quick squeeze before standing and walking back up the stairs without another word.

* * *

**Didya get it? The title... Booth... the location... *shrugs* :)  
**


	8. Six steps to filling a hole

**What? Two posts in the same night?**

**That's right kids. I'm not just excited about Monday. I'm really freaking excited.**

**I did a rewatch of Bones this last week, and this came pouring out post-The Crack in the Code.  
**

* * *

He was suspended.

After three days of repetitious questioning and a week of cars sitting outside his house watching for her to come home, he wasn't going crazy.

He was going absolutely mad.

No job to leave the house for. No family _in_ the house.

He woke up this morning, grabbed a granola bar for breakfast and proceeded to nibble at it for two hours while he stared at a wall from the couch. He only got up when he caught clock in the corner of his gaze and realized it was time for a shift change.

He walked to the window as the second car was pulling up and the overnight car pulled away.

Then he walked back to couch and resumed his staring.

Until he snapped out of it, finally jumping up with a growl, raking his fingers through his hair as his frustration reached its peak. He paced around the downstairs, around the couch, around the island in the kitchen.

And that's when he saw it.

Just a little patch of dirt in their backyard.

He walked to her office and looked around for the binder she'd been keeping all of her research in. He flipped through it until he found the right page and pulled out the information she'd found before walking into the garage to find the shovel.

Stepping into the backyard, staring at the marked patch of dirt, he remembered the start of their debate the month before Christine was born.

"_I'm not sure there's enough sunlight to plant it here."_

"_There's plenty of sunlight, Booth. But I think this spot is too close to the house."_

"_What? There's plenty of room."_

"_Not when the tree is 20 years old, much taller and wider than the tree we plant."_

"_Fine. One large step further into the yard, and how about here?"_

"_Have you ever seen a tree grow, Booth? We'd end up having to cut branches off of it eventually, when they grow into the side of the house."_

"_Why are we doing this now, anyway? We can't even plant the tree until this summer."_

"_Late spring is ideal. I just wanted to consider where to put it. You're the one who came running outside for fear of my shovel wielding."_

"_You're eight months pregnant, Bones. You shouldn't be digging holes right now."_

"_I wasn't going to dig deep, Booth. I just wanted to mark the spot where we should dig."_

"_We can't mark the spot when it's not 47 degrees outside?"_

"_If you're cold, you can go back inside… don't roll your eyes, Booth. I'm just doing what the instructions say."_

"_What instructions?"_

"_These instructions…"_

"'_How to plant a cherry blossom tree.' Well, that's specific."_

"_There are six simple steps, according to my research. The first step is to find the right location. '__If you're planting in your backyard, make sure that the spot you locate has plenty of sunlight and allows for good drainage.' __Once our daughter is here, I may be too distracted to make this decision. This is why I want to do it now."_

"_I want her to be able to see the cherry blossoms out of her window."_

"_As do I. But too close to the house could damage the tree."_

"_We'll deal with that when the time comes, _if_ it ever comes."_

…

"_You know, if the tree's too close to the house, eventually, it could be strong enough for her to climb down from her window… Booth, come back!"_

"_I think here is fine, Bones."_

"_I'm not even sure you're on our property anymore!"_

"_There's no need for it to be too close to her window."_

"_I was joking, Booth."_

"_When she reaches that age when she wants to sneak out of the house, I don't want to look back on this moment and know I could have done something about it."_

"_Of course. It's not like she could be smart enough to use the doors. Obviously, we just need to install bars on all the windows."_

"_You mocking me, now, Bones?"_

"_No… I would never…"_

"_How about here?"_

"_I think there works well… but just mark the spot. The ground's too cold to dig right now. You could hurt your back…"_

"_But the pregnant lady, totally okay for her to be digging right now."_

"_I dig for a living, Booth…"_

He stood at the spot with the same instructions she was holding that night.

...

_**1. Find a location**__. If you're planting in your backyard, make sure that the spot you locate has plenty of sunlight and allows for good drainage._

_..._

They had discussed the location and the access to the sun thoroughly before deciding on the spot that night. But he couldn't recall if they had discussed the drainage. He certainly didn't remember her explaining to him exactly what that would look like.

But if she was okay with this spot, then surely he had considered it. Besides… he wasn't up for reconsidering this spot now. This is exactly where she would find the tree when she came home.

He turned back to the list.

...

_**2. Buy a seedling or young cherry blossom plant from your local nursery**__. Cherry blossoms grow well in zones 9 to 11. If these plantings were produced from your zone, that would make them more suitable for transplanting in your area._

_..._

"What the hell's a zone?" he growled, while staring at the spot they had marked beneath him.

_Bones would know what a planting zone is, _he thought.

He walked away from the hole, headed inside to grab a beer. He stared at the hole through the kitchen window again as he took a long pull from the bottle as he reviewed the list. Zones. PH levels. Plants versus seeds. After a second pull from the bottle, he walked to grab his cell phone from its charger.

"Hey, it's Booth. Any chance you've got some free time today? … No, I haven't learned anything new. I was wondering if I could get your help with a project. I'll send you an address for this nursery in Bethesda, if you can meet me there? … Great… I'll fill you in when you get there," he said while grabbing the instructions and his keys.

Two hours later, Booth and Hodgins had arrived back at the mighty hut with a zone-appropriate baby cherry blossom tree and several bags of the mix Hodgins created to satisfy step four.

...

_**4. Add soil mix**__. Cherry blossoms can tolerate a variety of pH range. Check with your nursery to find what the best pH level for the plant you chose is._

_..._

Booth briefly regretted asking Hodgins for help when he started making his own soil mix out of a variety of ingredients on the floor of the nursery, annoying the staff as he made a mess and blocked an aisle. But Booth didn't realize how big the recommended tree for summer plantation would be and it wouldn't have come close to fitting in Brennan's Prius, the only car he had at his disposal since the FBI took his SUV. Hodgins, opting for a truck from his garage at the words "Nursery" was able to help transport the tree, fertilizer and the necessary soils he had chosen for the tree back to Booth's house.

_..._

_**3. Dig a hole about a size and a half of the plant base using a spade or shovel, if you've bought a young cherry blossom plant instead of a seed**__. Loosen the roots very gently before placing inside the hole. Make sure that you don't dig the hole too deep so that the trunk will be exposed. Allow for about three inches of the soil base to rise above the soil._

_..._

Booth held the tree by the trunk as Hodgins worked the roots into the ground.

"Are you massaging the roots, Hodgins?"

"The tree is young and tender. I just want to give it its best start in this ground," Hodgins defended as he gently detangled the roots from the dirt they were packed in. After another six minutes of brushing and what Booth had taken to defining as 'caressing' the roots, he started kicking the surrounding dirt into the hole that contained both the tree and an entomologist with one foot, leaning on the tree to keep him balanced on the other.

"Alright, alright, I can take a hint," Hodgins grumbled, shaking off the dirt Booth had kicked at him. They both worked to pack Hodgins' soil mixture into the hole to hold the tree up.

_****..._

_**5. Water and let it drain well before adding additional water.**_

_..._

Booth grabbed a couple of beers while Hodgins began watering the tree, bringing one out to him in thanks. Hodgins instructed Booth on the frequency he needed to water the tree. And then, it grew silent. Angela. Michael. Work at the lab. Plenty of things Hodgins' didn't think Booth would want to hear about since he was missing Brennan, Christine and their work. Mentally, Hodgins finally settled on baseball.

But still, Booth could only manage brief responses.

"You know, according to the Buddhist tradition, the cherry blossom tree, which blooms briefly once a year, symbolizes the transient nature of life. Because the flowers last for at most a few weeks, then the tree changes again. And again. And again. Their point being that everything is life is short-term. Temporary. It's a good lesson for life, in my book. The good things, the bad things… they never last forever. "

And with that, Hodgins took the last sip of his beer and said his goodbyes. Despite the agent's lack of social grace as of late, he left with Booth's sincere thanks for the help.

…

Booth went back into the house and checked the clock again, sad that this project had only managed to distract him for half of the day. He checked the window at the next shift change. He made dinner. He put a baseball game on the television and returned to staring at the wall.

He was still in the same spot when he woke up the next morning. And he looked at the clock. Checked the window. Scrounged for breakfast only to realize he had eaten the last of the granola bars and was out of cereal and oatmeal and eggs and it was probably time for a trip to the grocery store. He grabbed the nearest piece of paper to work on a list, but stopped short of writing on it when he saw it was the list of tree planting instructions.

He reread the page and sighed as he reviewed the last step again. The tree may have been planted and watered, but the project wasn't done yet.

...

_**6. Enjoy your brilliant, beautiful cherry blossoms!  
**..._

Because enjoying the tree would be impossible until his girls were home.

He walked back to her office and put the slightly worn page of instructions back in the book. Then he flipped to a new tab, with new instructions for the next project on her list.

At least building a state-of-the-art tree house laboratory should take him more than a day.

* * *

**Mmmm… I like it when Hodgins is wise. I just plain do. :) We'll see how tonight and tomorrow goes, but I may get two more stories posted before premiere night! How excited are you for Season 8?!**


End file.
